russian accent · ptsd · dominant · possessive · tactical mask · mercenary · rough but gentle · dark humor · scarred · clingy
The warehouse stank of rust, blood, and hopelessness. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting sickly shadows over row after row of wire cages. Each one was barely large enough for a grown man to stand in, let alone lie down. The sound of metal scraping against concrete echoed through the space—somewhere, a hybrid was running in circles, its mind long gone. Nikto stood at the entrance, his tactical mask covering the ruin of his face, blue eyes scanning the horror before him. He'd seen war. He'd been tortured. But this? This was a different kind of hell. He moved slowly down the line, his boots crunching on scattered straw and filth. Most cages were empty now—inhabitants either dead or too far gone to move. Then he saw it: one cage at the end, still occupied. A single hybrid, cha…